A/N: This was inspired by and is partially based on a song called Berlin, by Amanda Palmer and the Grand Theft Orchestra. The setting is entirely fictitious, though definitely located somewhere in Japan.

It's so dark in the back of the van that Sanji can't see his hands in front of his face. He's aching in muscles he didn't know he had and running over everything repeatedly – the store, the bag of cigarettes and vodka, my bike, the men, the pain, the van... the store, the bag... – and still thinking about it when the doors slam open and rough hands grab him.

"Get him inside," the driver says. Sanji can tell who's who because the driver has a deep voice while the other guy, clearly not native Japanese, has a strange accent that Sanji can't place. They'd talked up front and Sanji had heard every word - "Did the boss say he had to be in one piece?" "Nah, mate." "Awesome." The driver's definitely a native of the city, and he smells like smoke and sweat. He says, "Don't be afraid to mess him up a little." There's a chuckle and Sanji is passed from one pair of hands to another, and they grip his arms, bringing him into a hotel foyer and through to the other side, past the potted plants and gaudy fountain to the elevator doors. He sees the bellhop leaning dead and faceless against the reception desk. Someone comes out to drag him away as Sanji watches.

Three guys surround him, all big and burly, all silent, all business. It's hard to focus after the knock he took to the head and he's still trying to make out their facial features when the doors glide open.

Elevator music plays. He struggles to stay standing and waits for an opportunity to get away.

The man that greets him in the room at the end of the hallway is Eurasian; angular and dark eyed and dressed in black tie with the tie undone. He's smoking and nodding as one of the lackeys whispers in his ear. He doesn't look at Sanji until the beat-up blond is deposited at his feet, breathing shallowly through his mouth because there's blood blocking his nose, ears still ringing from the punch the driver threw as they'd snatched him.

The Eurasian's hands are slender, his nails filed into perfect white half-moons. These are the hands that he wraps around the collar of Sanji's blue button-up shirt, pulling him up until their eyes are level.

"You have caused me a lot of trouble, Ryota," he says, quiet and deadly, eyes half-lidded as he studies Sanji's face and neck.

"That's not my name," Sanji says. He holds the Eurasian's gaze, staring back through clouded eyes. The man's fingers curl tighter around the fabric of Sanji's shirt before he slams him to the ground. He watches dispassionately as Sanji, winded and gasping, extracts himself from the wreckage of a wooden coffee table. He's on hands and knees when someone kicks him in the stomach. Pain lances through his body and he cries out like a child, thinking oh god, they're going to kill me.

"I'm not - "

The Eurasian's shoes are heavy and polished and he slams them into Sanji's torso without expression. The lackeys look on from the massive oak desk behind them.

For a few minutes the only sound in the room is Sanji's pained cries and desperate breathing, and the Eurasian's satisfied grunts.

"You will own up," the man murmurs, "or you will die."

"Then I'll die," Sanji hisses through gritted teeth, his words punctuated by a grunt as the Eurasian kicks his leg.

His body aches beyond anything he's ever felt before. He hates feeling so helpless but there's not much he can do. He's seen the guns strapped in plain sight to everyone in the building and all the men scattered throughout. They've taken over this hotel, made it their own. Infested it. He's surrounded and planless, utterly without hope.

He's picked up again and bodily thrown into the oak desk, scattering the lackeys as his side collides with the corner.

What he needs is a knight in shining armor.

That's exactly what he gets.

The Eurasian goes down like a sack of bricks when Sanji kicks him. He aims that one kick at the man's neck, knowing it's the only kick he's going to get. He ignores the pain that spikes up his thigh and into his hip, breathing hard as the dark haired man collapses at his feet. The others are already moving to draw their weapons and Sanji stands in the middle of the room, facing a firing squad. His unsteady hands go for his pants pockets, where there should be cigarettes and a lighter, but those are in the bag with his discarded bike somewhere on the road between the store and home. He knows now that he's never going home again.

It's impossible for Sanji to stand upright, but he tries anyway. Stretching his abused stomach muscles and putting too much weight on his left leg causes pain so intense that his vision blurs. The lackeys don't give him time to position himself. They're already raising their guns.

But then the lights go out.

Two of them fall at the same time and a second later another follows. All of them are screaming and spraying blood from their calves and thighs, the backs of their knees, the deep gashes between their shoulder-blades. Through squinted eyelids Sanji sees a figure running behind them, and a flash of silver in the air before each is felled. They drop their guns and clutch their wounds, hands and clothes and floor stained deep red.

The intruder points at a spot behind Sanji's head. "Go," he says. Sanji turns and sees a window. Already voices are echoing up the corridor towards them, angry and growing quickly closer. With no choice but to obey he hobbles to the window, unlatches it and pulls it up. Cold air rushes in and fills his lungs as he clambers out and drops to the balcony.

The fall jars his beaten body when he lands on the metal grate of the fire escape below the balcony, and the pain is even worse when he jumps from there to the ground. The pavement is slick with ice but Sanji's shoes are fitted with grips and he's able to move easily enough. He heads for the end of the alley, seeing the streetlights glow and the smoggy darkening sky, aching to get out of there and get back home – but without his bike it seems impossible. At this time the streets are empty, and calling a cab means needing money that he doesn't have, never has, not even on nights when he's not been kidnapped and kicked around for a crime that somebody else committed.

"Can't even... fucking drive..." he says, talking to himself as he walks, spitting out blood, with his right hand on the dirty brick wall and blue eyes fixed on the golden glow ahead.

Before he can reach the end of the alleyway he hears a door bang open and footsteps coming towards him. He runs. He's sore and limping and slipping in the snow, favouring his right leg and wincing with every step, but he reaches the end within seconds and turns left.

Inside he's panicking, knowing that his pursuers are burning with the intent to gun him down right here and drag his body back. If he had his bike he could stand on the pedals and lose them in seconds, but the bike's probably still on the street where he left it. Some bastard's stolen it and I'll never get it back.

He's only a few doors down the main road before someone snatches him and pulls him through a doorway, one hand curled tight around his arm and the other clapped over his mouth. He smells smoke on skin, the stench of sweat and cloying blood swimming in his head and he tries to shake his grip, but this guy is strong. His fingers overlap around Sanji's bird-boned wrist, and when Sanji reaches up for the guy's arm to pull it away he feels heat – god, so much heat – and thick cords of muscles like steel. His strength is sapping and this guy hasn't killed him yet, so he goes limp, hoping the stranger will drop him, but instead he's carried up the stairs like a rag doll, so he tenses again and aims hard kicks at the guy's ankles.

The door to the stairs bangs open a few flights beneath them and angry voices echo up the stairwell, and the muscled man runs faster. "Stop that," he growls, and hoists Sanji over his shoulder. Now Sanji's mouth is free to shout, and shout he does.

"Put me the fuck down!"

The man, puffing up the stairs and gaining momentum rather than losing it, says, "I'm helping you escape, idiot. Just shut up. We'll be on the roof soon."

Helping me escape?

"Who are you?" he says.

There's no reply as the stranger kicks the door to the roof open. Snow swirls inside from a darkening sky and Sanji is set on his feet, but the man takes hold of his arm and leads him at a run towards the edge. He pulls back only to be jerked forward again. "Jump," the man says, and they reach the edge, and Sanji does.

They land on the roof of the neighbouring building nearly six feet below, clearing the gap with ease, and Sanji is led around exposed pipes and a smoking chimney to the next jump, and down a sloped glass ceiling to the next one, and through a massive rooftop greenhouse to the one after that. From there it's a terrifying leap across a massive gap onto a concrete parking structure. Sanji miraculously lands sustaining nothing more than a cruel wave of ground-shock that stabs through the soles of his feet and his ankles. He isn't allowed to stop for a second, landing and taking off again towards the single parked car on this level – a dark green Toyota Camry with mismatched cream coloured doors and no number-plate.

The man lets go of his arm to open the door and Sanji sees him properly then, silhouetted against the golden glow of the streetlights below. He sees high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, angular eyebrows, browned skin and sharp eyes. The guy's not as muscled or as tall as Sanji had first thought, and probably not much older than Sanji himself.

"You gonna get in the car?" the guy says.

He finds himself saying, "Yeah," and heads towards the passenger door.

As he's reaching for the handle he hears, "Get in the backseat and lie low." Sanji's too exhausted to argue, so he does as he's told. As he curls up in the back and his aching body relaxes despite itself and all the strangeness going on he feels something digging into his spine. He reaches behind him, pulls it out, and gapes.

"Is this a sword?"

"Yeah," the stranger says.

The car sputters into gear and they take off, driving in a circle down the ramps until they reach the bottom of the parking structure. A car comes screaming towards them from across the intersection and the man twists the wheel, swerving them hard to the right. Sanji hears a crunch as the enemy car collides with something behind them. From the back seat he hears a low laugh, almost feeling the waves of satisfaction.

He sits up despite the warning he was given and looks at the man's eyes in the rear-view mirror, starting because there's only one. The eyelid that wasn't visible as he'd watched the man open the door is closed, with just a thin scar running vertically through his eyebrow and partway down his cheek.

"Didn't I tell you to stay out of sight?"

"Yeah," Sanji says, but doesn't lie down again. He's taking this opportunity, while the two of them are no longer running, to examine this guy properly.

He's wearing a green jacket with black stripes extending from his collar to the cuffs of his sleeves, and a pair of black pants that aren't quite big enough. His feet are clad in heavy boots and there's a green bandana wrapped around his head and tied at the back. Perhaps it's that which makes his eyes look so menacing. Sanji also notices three gold earrings hanging from his left ear. He looks up at the mirror again and sees that he's being watched.

He mutters, "Eye on the road," and the man scowls.

"If I'd known you were so ungrateful I'd have left you there to die."

"Why didn't you? I've no clue... who you are," he says, breathing laboriously as the car swerves to the right, knocking him against the door.

"I knew they had the wrong guy," the driver says. "Couldn't leave you there when I knew you were innocent, I guess."

"Did you expect me to be kissing your feet and thanking you with every breath in my poor broken body?"

Another scowl, this one deeper, perhaps a little defensive. "No."

Sanji looks out the window to his left and realises that they've driven almost out of the city, although which side they're on, Sanji has no clue. The sky is cloudy, inky black, and snow still falls, drifting against the front window.

"Oi," Sanji hears. "You wanna tell me where you live?"

"Yeah, sure... Hey, can you tell me your name first?"

"Why?" the driver says, tone sharp.

"Because I'd like to know what to call you."

He doesn't think he's going to get an answer, but the man says, "Zoro Roronoa." A pause, then, "What's yours?"

"Sanji."

"Last name?"

"Not as far as you're concerned."

Zoro sighs and looks at Sanji through the rear-view mirror again. "You look awful. You're not gonna bleed out in the back of my car, are you?"

"This is your car? I'm surprised you're allowed one, the way you drive."

"Oi, shut it!"

"You saving my life won't mean much if you kill us in a car crash."

"My driving is fine!"

"So would you like to explain to me where we're going? I'm pretty sure you're heading towards the highway out of the city."

"I was trying to lose them," Zoro says, now looking not quite so sure of himself. He does a u-turn and Sanji grins. He's not sure why needling this guy is so fun. If anything he should be treading on thin ice right now, what with Zoro's displays of considerable strength and odd satisfaction after causing injury. But he doesn't feel threatened so much as wary, because Zoro's explanation - "I knew you were innocent" - doesn't sit quite right with him. He's figured out by now that Zoro was the one who had flashed through the room after the Eurasian went down and disarmed the guards, and judging by his explanation, however much of a lie it may be, Sanji can safely assume that Zoro is, or was, one of them.

Them being the damn bastards who'd beaten him half to death because they'd thought he was some criminal who'd done them wrong.

Now he's not sure whether or not he should tell Zoro where he lives. He could be planning something insidious. But despite his misgivings Sanji takes a leap. He lies back down on the seat and closes his eyes, trusting Zoro to get him home.

He wakes when the car jerks to a stop. The side door opens and strong hands pull him out, taking care not to touch his torso, where the bruises are, or his injured leg, which feels like dead weight. Cold wind and snow bite the exposed skin on his face, neck, hands, and the parts of his stomach where leaning against Zoro has caused his shirt to twist and ride up. Zoro carries him this way, with Sanji's arm slung over his broad shoulders, to the front door.

Sanji manages to mumble, "No key." It's in the bag he left on the road along with his bike and his cigarettes. Zoro grumbles and walks him back to the car. He sits in the driver's seat like a doll positioned by a child while Zoro picks the lock. It takes some time – he's obviously not very practiced at it – but time seems to be moving in a very strange way. Like it no longer matters.

He feels like he might float away at any second. The cold is the only thing reminding him that he's still awake, and the warmth of the seat beneath him where Zoro was sitting minutes before. The car is still running and the clock is still on. Green lights say 1.35am, but it can't have been long past midnight when he'd given Zoro the directions, and it shouldn't have taken over an hour to get here.

A hand, again, tugging at his forearm. He's never been this tired, never felt so utterly disorientated, not even while high. He lets Zoro do most of the work, moving only to half-lift half-drag his feet on the way to the open front door.

Inside it's cold and dark and Sanji breathes a thankful sigh. He feels like sleeping for a thousand years. If he could wake up and find the city washed away, leaving only him and the trees standing he would be happy. He would be free. But Zoro's fumbling his way to the bedroom and switching on the light (and he flinches because it's brighter than the sun) and laying him down on the bed, wasting no time in stripping him of his shirt and poking at his wounds.

He curls up like a hedgehog, protecting his middle. Zoro's fingers are rough and invasive. "Let me sleep," Sanji says. Light filters through his closed eyelids and he groans.

"I have to make sure you wont die."

Sanji waves a hand in Zoro's general direction and says, "Why do you care? You can leave me here. I don't have anything worth waking up for anyway."

He can't see or feel Zoro's reaction but he hears the door close after a few seconds have passed, and he thinks finally.

But then the mattress slouches where his back lies and there's a slight sensation of falling until Zoro settles at his back. It's a double bed with plenty of room, and Sanji can't so much as feel Zoro's breath but he knows he's there, knows he's boring holes into the back of Sanji's skull with one dark, guarded eye.

"Turn off the light," Sanji orders. Zoro sighs and stands up again. He flicks the switch and there's a blessed absence of anything except the mattress, slouching again and eventually stilling as Zoro finds a comfortable position.

"I'm only here to make sure you last the night," Zoro says, from behind him. "I'll be gone in the morning."

Sanji says, "Good," and sleep takes him.

When he wakes up there's a bag of groceries on the bench and money on the tiny dining table.

Sanji winces when he stands up out of bed. The pain has lessened with sleep but is still far from gone altogether. His legs ache, his head is pounding and his torso is so bruised that there's almost no clear skin left. He forgets all this when he sees the money and food. There's no note but he knows who it's from. He knows that Zoro didn't take Sanji's money and go to the store for him because Sanji has no money. No, Zoro paid for all that out of his own damn pockets.

He resists throwing the milk against the wall. He resists opening the window and scattering the green bills to the wind. He resists going outside and hunting Zoro's ass down and beating him over the head with one of the heavy paper bags.

But the money's nothing compared to the surprise he feels when he steps into the living room and finds Zoro asleep on the couch.

For a moment Sanji can only stare, because one: without his bandana it's immediately obvious to anyone that this idiot has green hair, and two: he realises that he doesn't have to hunt Zoro down to kick his ass. His ass has been delivered, and it's asleep in his home.

But maybe not. Zoro lifts his head a few inches and opens his one eye only moments after Sanji enters the room. Sanji leans against the door frame, long legs crossed, wishing he had a cigarette just to have something to do with his hands. In the end he only says, "What are you doing here?"

Zoro says, "G't lost," and lowers his head back onto the cushion, eye closing.

"You can't tell me to get lost in my own home -"

"Not get lost, got lost. As in it's a big city and I don't know the area, and somehow I ended up here again."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since this morning, obviously, I -"

"In the city."

"Six months."

"And you still don't know your way around?" Sanji can't help it – despite the pain, despite the sword he's just now noticed lying on the coffee table, despite that he's made it a rule not to engage with strange men trespassing on his property or in his life, he laughs. He's doubling over from the force of it, clutching his stomach with one hand and the door frame with the other. Zoro's shouting at him from the couch but he doesn't care. This moss-haired man isn't intimidating at all. He's an idiot.

When he stops laughing he repeats this thought aloud. "You can beat up guys holding machine guns and you can jump buildings and you can, I'm guessing, use that sword you've been carrying around, but you can also get lost in a city covered in signs all pointing your way." He laughs again. "And you can't drive for shit."

Zoro's hand is at his throat and pushing him against the door frame before he's registered that the other man's even left the couch. The sharp edge digs into his bruised spine and he winces, but only a little.

Zoro is grinning and there's a dark shadow over his eyes and for a second, Sanji is scared again. He may be healing but he's still pretty weak, and even when uninjured he's kind of fragile. He looks down and sees that the sword is in Zoro's hand. It's a black blade with purple waves washing down the shining metal, and Zoro holds it like he knows exactly what he's doing with it.

"You gonna kill me," Sanji wheezes, "immediately after saving my life?"

Zoro drops him. He does it slowly, fingers releasing their hold one by one, letting Sanji slide down the door frame until his toes touch the floor. He raises that same hand and slaps his cheek, soft enough that his head doesn't move, hard enough that it stings a little, and points so that Sanji goes a little cross-eyed.

"Maybe," he says. "If Tatsuya and his guys don't get you first."

"That's his name?"

"No. It's just what we called him."

"He would have seen you back there. Probably a lot of them did. They'll be coming for you, too." Sanji's fear that Zoro once worked for those bastards has been confirmed, but what scares him more is that he might still work for them. He doesn't look cunning, or even very smart, but then Sanji doesn't know him well at all.

Zoro sits back down. "I know." He looks too relaxed for a man whose life is potentially in massive danger. Sanji's whole body is tense, afraid. His eyes keep darting to the window, expecting to see someone standing there, watching him, but Zoro is leaning back with his hands behind his head and his mouth curled in a small smile.

"I hope you know how to do more with that sword than just hold it and look cool," Sanji says. The smile slips from Zoro's face and he sits up.

"Want me to try it out on you?" Zoro says, eyes narrowed.

Sanji sighs. "Let me cook dinner first."

On his way out the door he says, "I hope you don't mind me using the food you bought."

"That's what it's there for," Zoro replies, annoyed. Sanji can't help but smile a little. For a moment he allows himself to feel safe. Or safer. But just for a moment.

He's midway through preparing dinner when he hears the fridge door open, and then, "Got any sake?" He turns around to see Zoro with his head basically inside the thing, peering right to the back of the shelves.

"Sake, seriously? Does I look like I can afford that shit? I can barely pay rent."

"Beer, vodka, anything..." Further poking around confirms that no, Sanji has nothing of the sort. Even with the few bags Zoro bought there's a meager amount of food – some frozen vegetables, a bag of oranges, some packets of rice and noodles and tins of sauces. Sanji had ignored all of that in favour of the things Zoro left on the kitchen table. He did, at least, have the foresight to put the chicken in the fridge, but the rest was still bagged up when Sanji enters the kitchen, and he took his time unwrapping it all.

There's cheese, pasta, real fresh fruit and vegetables and a whole chicken, as well as soya sauce and other ingredients for a stir-fry. He stocks most of the food in the fridge then cooks the chicken in a pan on the stove, just enough that it's no longer raw and very slightly browned, then adds it to the simmering wok full of green beans, onion, carrot and honey soy sauce. The smell filters through every room of the house, and Sanji inhales deeply.

While the chicken absorbs the sauce and the vegetables finish cooking he puts on some rice, sets the table and brings two bottles of beer out of the bottom of the pantry. Zoro's face lights up when he sees Sanji putting them in the fridge door. Sanji realises that it's the first time he's smiled since their meeting the night before.

Zoro eats quickly, and drinks a lot. His constitution is amazing, though. Four bottles and he's barely tipsy, a fifth and he's getting there. Sanji manages one and half before his vision starts to waver.

"This is pretty good," Zoro says. He takes a third helping of rice and another spoonful of chicken stir-fry, and says, "You a cook or something?"

"No," Sanji sighs.

"What do you do?"

"I'd rather not tell you... not at dinner."

"Ah, jeez, is it something gross?" Zoro's still eating, speaking between mouthfuls. Sanji's plate is long cleared. He wants to get up and do the dishes but etiquette dictates that he sit and wait for everyone to be finished.

"Most people think so."

"Just tell me. I can handle it."

"I have sex with people for money."

It happens that Zoro has chosen to take a mouthful of beer at this moment, and he promptly chokes on it. A few swift thumps to the back with an open palm and he's mostly okay again, but Sanji can't tell whether the redness in his cheeks and earlobes is from this near-death experience or something else. Perhaps it's a combination of both. Either way, Zoro has some trouble getting his next words out.

"Are you... I mean... shit, maybe I shouldn't have asked after all."

Sanji says nothing. He scratches at the whorls of wood on the tabletop as Zoro shovels a few more massive spoonfuls of rice into his mouth. As soon as his bowl is empty he scoops it up and deposits it on the bench, and, reaching up to scrub at his ridiculous hair, mumbles something about being tired. Sanji can almost feel Zoro side-eying him as he leaves the room, and it's not really any wonder that he's chosen to escape rather than confront this new information. Sanji wouldn't have expected anything else.

There's more that Zoro doesn't know, of course. Half the story gets Sanji some weird looks and general avoidance. The full story could get him killed. He doesn't know Zoro one iota beyond the fact that he's really strong and straight-to-the-point, and that he possibly enjoys hurting people a little too much. The guy could be a homophobe on top of that, and in his current weakened state Sanji knows he wouldn't be able to do much beyond hold the other man off for a few minutes.

He leaves the dishes to dry on the draining board, puts on his socks and shoes, grabs his coat and goes to the lounge. Zoro is asleep on the couch again, this time lying across the cushions and snoring, with one arm hanging over the edge. Sanji stands in the doorway for a moment, noting the way that Zoro's face softens when he sleeps, how his forehead has smoothed and how his body has slackened. Sanji can't bring himself to wake him and ask him to go, even though it's what he wants.

It's no longer snowing and the sky is clear, and in the frosty air Sanji's breath clouds as he walks. Without his bike getting there will take much longer, and it gives him more time to think.

He wishes for his bike, and tries not to think too much, and hopes that Zoro is gone when he gets back.

"Here," Smoker says. He throws a roll of bills on the bedside table. Same amount as last week, and the week before, and the week before that. Sanji watches him shrug on his heavy coat and lace his heavy boots while Sanji sits on the edge of the bed dressed only in an open blue button-down shirt, wearing an expression of fake boredom to cover up the pain.

Thirty minutes later there's a knock at the door. Sanji, showered and dressed, mutters, "Right on time, as usual." He opens the door and standing on the motel balcony is a young man with deep blue hair and tired eyes. He nods and steps inside, shedding his black woolen coat and placing it on the armchair in the corner.

The way Law kisses can best be described as hungry. He's an intern at the city hospital with no time for relationships, and this hour or two every couple of weeks is the only personal connection he allows himself to have. The guys at the hospital are great, he said once, but they're just as busy as him, and it's not a good idea to mix work and sex, anyway.

He breaks the kiss and reaches for his jacket, going into the left pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. "I bought these for you," he says.

"After," Sanji replies.

Even when Law's trying to be rough he's gentle. It's a far sight better than Smoker's calloused hands and the way they grip Sanji's hips hard enough to leave bruises. Law kisses around the purple and yellow on Sanji's stomach and chest, starting from his hipbone until he reaches the top of his ribs, before coming up to catch his mouth again. "I've been waiting for this," Law whispers. "I wait for it all week."

"So do I," Sanji says. He's not lying.

Sometimes Sanji sees that Law's embarrassed to be doing this, to bare himself this way – he sees that he needs it, too. Coaxing Law to the finish is never difficult. The other man's needs run so deep that once he has Sanji touching him, his reservations fly away with his serious constitution and his nerves become exposed like stripped wires. "Sanji, oh god -"

"Come on," Sanji breathes, thrusting harder. "You're so close..." He clutches Law's hips and rolls his own, moving to a practiced rhythm, stroking in and out as Law pants above him. Sanji pulls Law gently down and nips and sucks on his neck, grasping his hair and pulling him further until his nose rests in the groove of Sanji's neck. He moans, and Law comes.

Sometimes it's so easy that Sanji wonders why they don't do this every night.

"You bought the expensive ones again." Sanji scolds.

"You like them, don't you?" Law knows exactly what Sanji likes – which smokes, which motels, which words to say and where to touch. He knows that Sanji never cuddles his clients, but that lazily sprawling together on the bed is just fine, and a few cigarettes between them before they leave one another is even better.

Law's head is on Sanji chest and his left arm is curled into Sanji's side, but aside from that they don't touch. He's undressed but for his socks and in his right hand is a cigarette, dropping ash near Sanji's bellybutton, but his legs lie miles away across the bed and his hips are guarded by the red sheets.

While they lie there Sanji tells Law about the night before, and Law quietly listens, reacting little. He only cuts in when Sanji mentions the Eurasian.

"He sounds dangerous," he says.

"Yeah, I got that feeling..." Sanji sighs. "It's not just all the men under his command or the guns or the fact that they've managed to take over an entire hotel in the middle of the city – it's the way he talks. Like he could rip me apart with his bare hands."

"Only I'm allowed to do that."

Sanji lifts a hand to the back of Law's neck, feeling a shudder run through the other man's body. His fingers move absentmindedly, and he forgets what he was going to say.

"Do you need my help?" Law says, a quiet minute later.

"I don't want it."

"Okay."

"One day you're going to stop paying me to do this," Sanji says from the bed, blowing smoke at the ceiling.

"You shouldn't smoke," Law replies.

"You do it too," Sanji says.

"Only with you," Law says. "You do it too much. It's bad for your health." He closes the door and leaves Sanji to an empty quiet room.

Sanji says to the room, "That's the point."